


Drabbles, MacManus Style

by agdgoddess



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Because It's the Fuckin' MacManuses for Christ's Sake, Blood, Brotherly Love, Catholic Guilt, Character Death, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff, Gun Violence, Hail Mary Full of Grace, Incest, Lord's Fuckin' Name, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smoking, Swearing, Twincest, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-24 20:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdgoddess/pseuds/agdgoddess
Summary: Life and death MacManus style. Major angst. Major fucking. Major fluff. Everything in between.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please heed the warnings. Turn away now if twincest is not your thing. You have been warned! 
> 
> Each drabble is 100 words exactly with 15 drabbles to a chapter. I originally did this as a challenge to work on editing, tense, vocabulary, points of view and to give my muse wings. Addiction and obsession, much like whiskey and Irish twins, soon followed.
> 
> I own nothing...Troy Duffy does. If I did, do you really think I'd be writing this instead of languishing in bed with the twins?

 

 

Letters 

"Fuckin' hell!" Murphy swore, throwing his pencil down in frustration. "Fuck Russia and its crazy-ass letters!" He crossed his arms and huffed.

"Not finishing another of your assignments, Murph," Connor warned, not looking up from his notebook.

"Why not?" Murphy pouted, bottom lip protruding. "I'll finish your History essay?"

"Already done."

"Give you my last two cigs?"

"Gotta do better than that."

A wicked smile curved the darker twin's mouth, eyes gleaming. "I'll let you top tonight even though it's my turn."

Connor slowly grabbed Murphy's paper, not wanting to seem too eager. "По рукам."

Murphy chuckled. "Works every time."

 

По рукам = deal

 

Intoxication

It started as a friendly contest. Rocco was curious which brother could drink the most, which led to the line of 10 full shotglasses in front of each twin.

"This is like that tavern scene in Raiders," Connor mumbled, shaking his head.

"Shut the fuck up, Indy, and drink," Murphy ordered, slamming his already empty glass down. The rows of glasses were refilled, both brothers refusing to concede.

"You're slippin', Conn."

"You wish, ya tosser!"

Closing time came, and a draw was declared. Come morning, waking naked and tangled together, they felt like they both had won. Minus the headaches.

 

Temperamental

God's work is taxing, stressful, draining. Surrounded constantly by blood and death and their Da, emotions run beyond high, charging the air with crackling tension. Inevitability looming until, finally--snap!

An argument over who showers first quickly escalates into shoving, then an all-out brawl. It's soon apparent that violence isn't the outlet they need.

Punching turns into groping. Fists into kisses. Kicks into licks. Curses into moans. Bites and scratches into, well, the same but with different intent.

Blinding headlights flash through the window, signaling Noah's return, and they spring apart. "This isn't finished!" promises Connor ominously.

"Fuckin' bring it."

 

Song Lyrics

Smoke 'em if you got 'em cuz it's going down,

All I ever wanted was you.

I'll never get to heaven 'cause I don't know how,

Let's raise a glass or two...

For all the things I've lost on you.

Tell me are they lost on you?

Just that you could cut me loose,

After everything that's lost on you.

Lost on You by LP

 

"We're doing this here? Now?" Annoyance laces your voice as you light a fresh cigarette, down a whiskey, eyes narrowing at my hand grabbing your arm.

"Yes, before she fucking swallows you whole," I snap.

You snort, taking another drag. "What's it to you?"

"How can you ask that?" You avoid my eyes so you don't see the hurt there. You hear it in my voice. 

"Get over it, Murph. It's not happening again."

"I've only ever wanted you, Conn," I insist desperately.

You brush me off, taking with you the only heaven I've ever known, or ever will.

 

I Don't Want to Die a Virgin

Murphy's slightly overdramatic at times. Like after they went joyriding in Mike Fitzpatrick's parents' car, which Mike crashed to avoid hitting a cow. The boys escaped with minor injuries but the car was totaled, meaning they were as good as dead. "I don't wanna die a virgin!" Murphy wailed the whole walk home.

Years later, after their first time, lying together in twisted sheets, Connor asks anxiously, "How ya feelin', Murph?"

"Like I was a virgin before. I didn't know it could be this fuckin' good," he replies honestly.

"Aye." This time, Connor decides, Murphy isn't being overdramatic one bit.

 

Sleepless

Connor can never sleep the night after a successful job. Finger resting on the trigger of his Beretta, he waits for stray members of the gang or mafia they've just delivered to bust through the door, seeking vengeance.

He doesn't mind, too keyed up with adrenaline. Connor listens to the steady, rhythmic breathing of his twin and it slowly helps him to relax enough to send up prayers of thanks that they both emerged unscathed once again. He studies Murphy's peaceful face in the glow from the alarm clock, and finds it the perfect way to spend his sleepless night.

 

Getting Caught 

They didn't get caught until two weeks before graduation. They'd only gone under those bleachers to smoke. Honestly. But one brush of Connor's thumbpad over his twin's gorgeous mouth found Murphy on his knees worshipping his brother's cock, Connor's moans so loud they almost didn't hear the throat clearing behind them.

Icy fingers of terror trailed their spines as one stood, the other zipped, registering the disgust on Father Walsh's face. Wanting to avoid scandal, silence offered if they confessed and left the county. They readily agreed, but never confessed as neither felt regret.

Boston. And they never looked back. 

 

At the Movies (A Matrix of Stars)

"Liam Neeson over Keanu Reeves? Are you daft?"

"We grew up on Star Wars, Conn! We gotta see the first chapter!" 

"Vader's not even in this one! Just some dumb brat! 'Sides, Keanu does a bunch of jujitsu and shit in it!"

"I know you fancy yourself the next Bruce Lee or some shit, but it's STAR WARS!"

"There's guns, Murph! Tons of 'em! Ow! Watch it, ya knob!"

"Jedis! Lightsabers! Hey, ya fucker! Knock it off!"

"Hey!" Rocco's roar caused them both to freeze, hands practically at each other's throats. "Haven't you fuckin' micks ever heard of a double feature?"

 

Violence

Truthfully, Connor thought he would have a bigger problem with their new calling, especially as a devout man, but he doesn't. It's as though he and Murphy were born to create righteous violence. The splatters of blood, bone and brain paint priceless abstract works of art. The symphony of bullets whizzing through silencers and tearing through evil flesh is gratifying and melodious. The smell of gunpowder, copper and leather on his hands is intoxicating and addicting.

The papers call them saints. To him, they're Archangels of Truth and Justice, wielding God's flaming sword of vengeance. And two really bad-ass motherfuckers.

 

Bloody

As an ardent Catholic, he believes that the liquid in the chalice has been transubstantiated into the actual blood of Jesus Christ. It is no mere symbol like the Protestants practice, and he drinks it in remembrance of his Lord and Savior.

However, ever since they became God's shepherds, it no longer tastes like wine. Too warm, too thick, it coats his mouth and throat, iron tang making him gag, but he swallows it down like the rest of his sins. The problem is that Murphy no longer knows if it's the blood of Christ or that of his victims.

 

Games (Monopolize Me)

"So, Park Place with a hotel's 1500 big ones! Pay up, deartháir!" Murphy crowed, eyes sparkling victoriously.

"Is that the thanks I get for letting you be the dog?" Connor sulked.

"Shut it. I know you like the car best! Now, about that rent."

Connor counted his dwindling stack of paper bills. "Seems I'm a bit short."

His twin smiled mischievously. "That right? Well, make me an offer."

"Shirt."

"Fuck that! Boxers!"

"Jeans. And I'll take 'em off real slow like."

"Aye, I guess that'll do."

Next time Connor went directly to jail, Murphy paid him a proper conjugal visit.

 

Heat 

"Christ! It's hotter than the realm of Hades!" Murphy slammed the door behind him, immediately ripping off his t-shirt dampened with sweat.

"My dear brother, the Greek scholar," Connor teased.

"Fuck you! I'm sweatin' my ass off!" he complained as he shimmied out of his jeans, striding to the shower.

"Don't," Connor ordered, stalking purposefully over to his twin, eyes dark and predatory.

"Why the fuck not? The cold water'll feel good for once!"

Licking the back of Murphy's neck, Connor whispered in his ear, "Wanna taste ya. 'Sides, with what I have planned, you'll just get all sweaty again." 

 

School Uniforms

Pulling the curtain aside to the dressing room, he didn't need a mirror to know he looked like an idiot. 

"You look so macho there, Murph!" His brother laughed and Murphy threw him a very emphatic bird. 

"Shut your gob! Let's see how you look in it then!" he challenged. Minutes later, Connor emerged and Murphy's stomach clenched. _Fuck_. 

Pristine white collar contrasted perfectly against tanned column of throat. Navy blazer emphasized strong shoulders, narrow waist. Maroon tie complimented golden hair, sky blue eyes. 

"I know, I know. I look like a fuckin' tool or somethin'!"

"Or somethin'," breathed Murphy. 

 

Coming Out

"But you are, aren't you?" Smecker's hand gestured between the two of them to emphasize his suggestion. 

"Are we under oath?" Murphy inquired, smirk twisting one side of his mouth up.

"We plead the fifth," added Connor. 

"I'll take that as a yes. You know, hot twins--that's every gay man's fantasy," Smecker leered hungrily before exiting, extra sway to his ass. 

"Christ, now I know why women hate men perving all over them," Connor muttered.

"Aye. Reckon I need a shower. Feelin' pretty violated." 

"Violated, huh? Oh, Murph, I'm gonna show you a whole new meaning of the word." 

 

Family History

Ma had eight siblings and Connor's favorite, Uncle Kenny, was a priest in the next village. Despite being a holy man, he was boisterous, always moving and quick-witted, reminding Connor of Murphy. 

For as long as anyone could remember, at least one son in every generation joined the priesthood. Everyone thought it would be Connor, as he was so devout. Ma was beyond proud; Murphy was sick with dread. 

"You gonna become a priest, Conn?"

"'Course not, ya daft prick! I'm not leaving your side. I love you more than God." 

"That's blasphemy!"

"I guess I'm goin' to hell then." 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Quotes

"I'm strangely comfortable with it."

Murphy's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Whatever response he'd been expecting from Connor, that'd certainly not been it. "You are?"

"Did I stutter? It's fine, Murphy!"

"But, I thought you hated--"

"Jaysus, ya want me to change my mind? I do hate 'em, but I love you more, ya gobshite!" The blonde twin scowled and punched his brother's arm.

"Careful, Connor!" Murphy protectively wrenched the mewling bundle in his arms away from harm. Stroking the kitten's black fur lovingly, he murmured, "Now, what should we name him?"

 

Temptation

Watching Connor sleep so peacefully, skin illuminated by moonlight, put all sorts of wicked thoughts in his mind. Murphy knew he shouldn't, but he was never one to resist temptation.

Strategically placed hand, perfect warmth surrounding it. He could hardly wait for Connor's reaction. It only took minutes. 

"Fuckin' hell, Murph!" Collapsing in a fit of laughter, he pointed at the large wet spot on his brother's boxers. 

"I'mma fucking kill you!" Connor roared, murder in his eyes while beating Murphy's arse black and blue. It was worth it to call his twin a bed wetter for the next month. 

 

Pet

Thank the saints above they're multilingual. There's just something about the English language that makes pet names sound utterly cringe-worthy. Baby. Honey. Sweetheart. Fuck that shit. 

"Mi salvacion," sends shivers down the spine just like Murphy's kisses send shivers down his brother's spine. 

"Il mio tutto," trails off lips as Connor trails his lips down his twin's tempting throat. 

"Délicieux, mon couer," curls off the tongue while Murphy curls his tongue around Connor's cock. 

"Foirfeachta, mo ghrá," completely fills the soul when Connor fills Murphy repeatedly to complete oblivion. 

But, "I love you," sounds fucking beautiful in any language. 

 

My salvation

My everything

Delicious, my heart

Perfection, my love

 

Kink

"You realize the spelling of MacManus is Scottish, right?"

"Doesn't matter. Not gonna happen, Murph!"

"C'mon, deartháir! For me?" 

"Why the fuck should I?" Connor eyed the item on the bed dubiously. Technically, it was for a man, but still... 

"So I can see your calves...your thighs...your bonnie knees."

"I'll wear shorts." 

"Not the same." Murphy closed the distance between them and licked a line up Connor's throat, breathing in his ear, "Easy access." 

Connor groaned, "I'm beginnin' to see your point." 

Smirking triumphantly, Murphy pulled another kilt from behind his back. "Good, 'cause I got me one, too." 

 

Library

This is the closest he's come to experiencing heaven. Connor stood in awe, taking in the endless rows of books climbing up to the soaring ceiling. The scent of ancient, leather-bound tomes reached his nose, and he could literally smell the priceless history contained within Trinity College Library's hallowed hall. 

Nudging him softly, Murphy whispered, "Class's movin' on." Connor sighed. They were here primarily to see the Book of Kells but, to him, this was the highlight. 

_One day we'll be studying at a grand university like this_ , thought Connor, oblivious that God had different plans for the MacManus brothers. 

 

Shadow

It's oppressive. Always killing, always running, always hiding what they are to each other. Noah's their constant shadow, always watching, never granting them a moment alone. Murphy wonders if Noah knows, then wonders why he gives a fuck. He refuses to call him Da, unlike Connor. He hasn't earned it. 

Connor's so guarded and distant now; Murphy's never been more adrift. He's a ship without an anchor, a tree without roots, a bird without wings. His twin's sleeping a foot away, but it's really an ocean. Murphy prays he takes a bullet before Connor completely leaves him to drown in loneliness. 

 

Lies

I always used to tell you the truth. About everything. I shared how disappointing and short my first time was. When I was drunk and made out with your ex-girlfriend, I confessed immediately. You didn't speak to me for weeks, but not telling you would've been more painful. 

I'm in agony now. You know I'm acting different, I'm withdrawing, keeping something from you, and you've quit asking. Your pained eyes haunt me, silent accusations flung with every gesture. You don't touch me anymore. Because I don't let you. 

Lies are driving us apart, Connor, but the truth would fucking break us. 

 

Toys

They're like toys to you, soft and sweet and beautiful. Part of me dies every time you walk out the door, muscled arm wrapped around a slim, curved waist. That arm belongs to me. 

Thank Christ, you don't take them to ours.

You push their friends on me. I'm polite, but I never leave with them. You tease me in the morning--you never stay the night--saying I take the whole chastity thing a bit too much to heart. 

Fuck, Murph, if you only knew how opposite of chaste I feel. I hate every girl that's ever known you. 

 

Halloween

"You've lost it completely!"

"What? It's Halloween, Connor!"

"Doesn't mean you have to wear makeup, Murph!" 

"We're vampires. This enhances the sex appeal." Connor watched in fascination as his twin finished rimming his eyes in black eyeliner, then faced him. "Your turn." Connor's mouth dropped, cock hardening. Fuckin' Christ--it was sinful how gorgeous his brother looked. 

Thinking Connor's stricken expression was abhorrence at wearing makeup, Murphy upped the stakes. "I bet you'd look very fuckable. I'm getting turned on just imagining it." 

"Aye? 'Kay, but only 'cause it's Halloween."

They arrived at the party over an hour late. 

 

Music

A wrecked moan ripped through the night, almost making Connor stop. "Quiet, deartháir! Ma's home!" 

"Speak...for yourself...sound like...an animal...back there," Murphy panted in time with his brother's strokes. Unable to control his growls, Connor tongued a stripe up Murphy's spine to occupy his mouth. Bad idea, considering the loud keen that followed. 

"I said shut it!" Connor slammed a hand over Murphy's mouth, the ensuing licks and nips causing him to thrust faster, deeper. 

It was trite, but Connor thought they made beautiful music together. He couldn't wait to hear it at full volume one day. 

 

Secrets 

Careful. Always so fucking careful. Affection shown in biting banter and touches that are kept brotherly. But even those last far too long than what's normal. They pass it off as a twin thing because they must. Secrets fuckin' suck. 

Finally. Finally in a different city, in a gay club where no one knows them from Adam. Here, among the pulsing beats and swirling lights of the dance floor, Murphy can finally touch his twin the way he constantly yearns to, sweat and heat and friction and breath building between them. That hotel room's going to be destroyed come morning. 

 

Jealousy

Beer tasting like bile. White walls turning red. Pure, unfiltered anguish. He doesn't remember walking home, but suffers every second he's alone in their room, replaying that agonizing moment--door closing behind Cathleen as a smiling Connor pulled her into the bedroom. 

He's staring out the window when Connor finally appears behind him. "Well?"

"Didn't happen."

"Why the fuck not? It's all you talk about for fuck's sake!" 

Time stops as Connor gives him a kiss so full of desperation that it tells Murphy everything even before his brother draws back and reveals, "You, Murph. It's only ever been you." 

 

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas 

Christmas time in New York is a mess of contradictions. Cheerful lights twinkling above the grime, piss and dirty slush. Carols spilling from shops drowned by deafening honks and sirens. Grandiose windows displaying the obscene wealth of 5th Avenue while countless homeless slowly freeze to death. Blood spilling from delivered souls as red as holly berries and ribbons on wreaths. 

They don't have time for the frivolities of decorations, trees or presents anymore. But, as they pass through the door of the bodega to buy cigarettes and beer, they spare time to share a brief kiss under the plastic mistletoe. 

 

Birthdays

Everyone always assumes that Saint Patrick's Day is their birthday, just because they're Irish and raise so much hell on that day. People are fucking dumb that way, but the twins let them believe what they will. 

No, they haven't told anyone in Boston what date their birthday is and never will. That day is only for them. They don't go out and get pissed. They don't blow out candles, eat cake or sing stupid songs. Rather, they spend the day celebrating each other in filthy, sweet, sinful, tender, earth-shattering ways--the only present they care to give or receive. 

 

Obsession

Murphy's obsessed with smoking, the lit cigarette perpetually held between his fingers as though it's an extension of himself that he was simply born with. It seems like the only time he doesn't have a smoke dangling from his lips is when that mouth is on Connor. 

Connor's obsessed with drinking, the sharp crack of the can or sloshing of liquid being poured eliciting almost a Pavlovian response of anticipation. It seems like the only time he doesn't have a beer in his fingers is when those hands are on Murphy. 

But, above all else, they're obsessed with one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Santa Claus

"I still cannot fucking believe you volunteered for that shite!"

"Oh, c'mon! How else was I going to get you to sit on my lap?"

Connor snorted, rolling his eyes. "Well, I certainly wasn't the only one. Kristin from accounting took so many turns, I'm surprised there wasn't a wet spot on your trousers."

Murphy snickered, unbuttoning the cheap red coat trimmed in white. "Aye, she's definitely on the naughty list this year. But, she's nowhere near as naughty as you, is she?" He winked lasciviously.

Connor eagerly watched his twin undress before demanding, "Murphy. Leave the fuckin' hat on."

 

Kissing

A tongue flicked out between sets of lips into the other's warm mouth, tentatively exploring, tasting, touching.

"Like that?"

"Aye, better. Try like this, though." 

The other's tongue teased it's way through parted lips, twisting and stroking smoothly. The kiss grew in intensity, wandering hands soon followed on fevered skin, the need for breath being the only reason they separated. 

"I'm still not sure I got the hang of it. C'mon, show me again," Murphy pleaded urgently. 

Connor sighed dramatically, pretending to give into his brother's insistence. "Okay. But, this is the last time."

They both knew it wouldn't be. 

 

Shower 

I used to love taking showers. It felt like rebirth, a clean slate. 

I used to love watching Murphy shower. Water flowing elegantly over pristine, pale skin, the ink of his tattoos appearing darker, blacker. God, we loved fucking in the shower, wet skin sliding, hands grabbing desperately at slippery tiles. 

Now, I'm lucky if I shower twice a week. I wallow in my own filth, dirt coating my skin and hair like the dirt covering Murphy's coffin. I'm dead already--a man can't live without his heart--and dead men don't need to bother with trivial things like grooming. 

 

Breakup

He hated her. Not because there was anything wrong with her. That was the problem. She was too right. If Connor didn't lock that down, he was a fuckin' idiot. The admission to himself made him want to vomit. 

Suddenly, she stopped coming round the bar and Connor spent every night at home. Murphy finally asked about her. 

Connor shrugged as he lit two cigarettes, passing one to Murphy. "Broke up."

"Why?"

Harsh exhale of smoke. "Doesn't matter, Murph. It's fuckin' over and done."

"But why?" 

Unreadable eyes met Murphy's own. "She wanted me to move in with her." 

"Oh."

 

Winter

Winters in Boston last forever. The never-ending Nor'easters dump feet of snow that consume the city and take months to finally disappear. 

The heating in their building is inconsistent at best. At any given moment, their shit-hole of a flat is either a sauna or a fucking igloo. 

Connor likes it best when it's roasting because that means that Murphy strips down naked as soon as he walks through the door. 

Murphy likes it best when it's freezing because that means that he can wrap himself around Connor under the pretense of keeping warm. 

Either way, it leads to them generating their own heat--together. 

 

Fairy Tale

They're men. Who just happen to fuck each other. But still, they're fucking manly. They drink too much, smoke too much, eat too much, curse too much, fight too much, fuck too much. They sure as shit don't make love. 

But on quiet nights like this--Murphy fast asleep with his head on Connor's shoulder, naked limbs interwoven, both sweaty and sated and at peace--Connor reflects, allowing the true purity and depth of their love to wash over him, through him. It's almost overwhelming, and he can't help himself from feeling like he's in a goddamn fuckin' fairy tale. 

 

Moving In 

The great thing about a city where most residents lived in cramped apartments was that unwanted furniture was thrown to the curb, rather than stored in garages or sheds. The ratty couch was a God-send. The broken lift and four flights of twisting stairs were not. 

"Fuckin' higher, Murph! Gotta clear this railing!" Connor roared.

"I'm fucking tryin', ya bossy cunt!" The curses and insults only got worse the higher they maneuvered the damn thing. 

Eventually, they made it to their flat, collapsing in a sweaty heap on the dusty cushions. Murphy glanced at Connor and smirked. "Wanna christen it?" 

 

Dirty 

Before, every handjob, every blowjob, every fuck felt dirty, like a permanent smudge on my soul never to be erased, not even through confession. So I stopped, learning to live without sex and depending solely upon my own hand for release.

Before, I considered it mere coincidence that Connor stopped when I did. 

Now, I understand at last. Now, with Connor moving perfectly above me, around me, _in_ me, blazing blue eyes locked with my own, taking me to heights of exquisite pleasure never experienced before, my soul has never felt so untainted, so clean, so very fucking complete. 

 

Separation

We avoid separate shifts at the plant like the fucking plague, but sometimes the opportunity for overtime comes up and the money's too good to say no. Murph stayed last time, so it's my turn tonight. 

Six hours later, I'm climbing the stairs, beyond shattered. I just want to shower and crash. Murphy--fuck, he's gorgeous in bare feet--stands in the doorway, handing me a full beer and lit cigarette. "Felt you comin'." 

"Not yet, you haven't," I promise, tugging him into a scorching kiss. The fuckin' shower can wait. Better yet, maybe I'll make him join me. 

 

Naked 

My brother's a sublime specimen of the male form--broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. Long, sculpted limbs. And that ass. Fuck me, that ass. 

Doesn't make me gay, fuck you very much. Just means I appreciate breathtaking beauty when it's right in my fuckin' face. Shut it. 

Murph clears his throat, startling me from my reverie. Shite. I've been caught. Still naked, he raises his eyebrows, smug grin plastered on his stupid, handsome mug. "Help you with somethin'?" he jeers. 

"Just trying to determine who's oldest. You know, accordin' to Ma."

"Whatever you say, my dear, _younger_ brother." Fucker. 

 

Weather

A storm's coming and Connor knows what that means. He climbs the stairs faster, recognizing that this is one of the few ways that Murphy is predictable. Sure enough, his twin's waiting at the door leading to the roof, umbrellas and sixer of beer in hand. 

Murphy has always loved thunderstorms. He would gaze in fascination at the electric white streaking the sky, listen in wonder at the crashing booms rolling through the heavens. 

Murphy's like lightning itself. Crackling with unpredictable wildness, blinding beauty, dangerous intensity. 

Together, they are thunder and lightning. Where one is, the other's sure to follow. 

 

St. Patrick's Day 

Connor doesn't understand why Murphy loves Saint Patrick's Day so fucking much. Yes, it's a holy day meant to honor the saint and Ireland. But, Americans have bastardized it beyond belief--plastic shamrocks, stupid "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" buttons and unnatural green's everywhere, including their rivers. They even color beer green. What a fucking travesty. 

Speaking of, Murphy's wearing so many cheap green beads, he looks like a fuckin' floozy at Mardi Gras. Connor refuses to wear green, which Murphy punishes him for with bruising pinches all night. 

He does, however, wear red, praying Murphy remembers the meaning behind it. 

 

Proverbs 

They'd been in Boston for two days, desperately searching for work and a place to live with zero luck. Every street was unfamiliar, every face a stranger. Connor sulked, growing increasingly disheartened, and Murphy was determined to keep their spirits afloat. 

Noticing a neon Guinness sign, he stopped. "Let's pop in, have a pint." Connor followed him into the dark bar, quickly picking up on the fact that it was the kind of establishment only men frequented. 

Murphy turned, grabbed Connor's face, giving him a proper, open-mouthed kiss. Drawing back, upon observing Connor's shock, he shrugged, "Well, when in Rome..." 

 

The Derangement of All Senses 

"Fuck me!" Murphy swore as they both tumbled down onto the rumpled sheets. Connor buried his face into his twin's neck, hot pants cooling the sweat gathered there. 

"I just did, Murph," Connor mumbled, and Murphy could feel the grin against his skin. 

"You ruined me, Connor. Ruined! All my senses are fucked up and blurred together."

"So poetic you are." 

"Seriously, up was down. Down was up. Felt like you were everywhere at once! Had no fuckin' clue what you were gonna do next." 

"That's the fucking point, dear brother."

"Aye," Murphy hummed, stroking his fingers along Connor's spine. "Next time, you're wearin' the blindfold."

 

Miracle

When they were children, Murphy asked Connor if he believed in miracles. "'Course, Murph. There's tons of 'em in the Bible. And what about all those performed by the saints?" 

Murphy pondered, "Think I'll ever witness a miracle?"

"Maybe someday," Connor replied. 

Someday was today. Kneeling in the gritty alleyway staring down the barrel of a gun, Murphy was prepared to meet his maker when... _is that a fuckin' toilet_? He barely had time to duck and shield himself, then a flash of white knocked over the second thug. Murphy found Connor still alive. They were both alive. Fucking miracle.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Sanctuary 

Their flat is a real piece of shit. The pipes are ancient, leaky faucets spouting out rusty water that never gets hot. The marred floors creak and the stove produces flame one out of every four attempts. Not that either of them cook. They only use it when their lighters run dry. The fridge barely works. They certainly don't keep any food in there and the beers are cellar temperature at best, but that simply reminds them of Ireland.

It's a fuckin' hole in the wall, but it's theirs, and it has the most important thing of all--each other. 

 

Crisis of Faith

It's a cruel twist of fate, and the sheer torture makes him doubt his Lord. Why would a loving God carve his perfect mate out of his very own soul, and then have him be of the same flesh so they could never be together? Forbidden fruit has never hung so low, so within his grasp. 

Flawless, golden skin. Precious sapphire eyes that peer straight into him. Lean, muscular body that would make Michelangelo weep at its transcendence. And, above all, a fearless, strong, loving heart that beats only for him. 

Murphy stops wearing his rosary and Connor doesn't ask why. 

 

Biggest Fears

As children, their biggest fears were spiders, being separated, being struck by the Mother Superior's ruler or going to hell when they died.

As Bostonians, their biggest fears were not being able to pay the rent, getting mugged on the stumble home from the pub or the Sox losing to the fucking Yankees.

As Saints, they have a singular fear. It looms over their shoulders, creating restless nights and anxious days. It's what drives them to cling possessively to one another, fuck fiercer than ever before. They no longer fear hell or the inevitability of death. Rather, they're terrified of being the one left behind. 

 

College 

"Name's Murphy. Yours?"

"Connor."

"Nice to meet ya, Conrad."

"It's Connor." 

"Whatever. Let's get you a beer, pretty boy," Murphy threw over his shoulder, weaving through the crowd to the keg. Connor chugged the cheap, foamy beer, chatting with the handsome brunette over blaring beats of Snoop Dogg. 

Hours later, Murphy's mouth attacked his as he was pushed into an empty bedroom. They'd played the sexy stranger game before, but this...

"You're touched, ya know?" Connor gasped as Murphy's hand dove into his jeans, palming his erection. 

"Shut it. Haven't you ever wanted to fuck at a frat party?" 

 

Star Wars

"I'm Han Solo. Be Luke. You're blonde!"

"I'm Han Solo. I'm older! And better looking." 

"Are not! 'Sides, if being older's your reason, be Obi Wan."

"No way, Murph! He dies!"

"Well, you're whinging like a little girl, so maybe you should be Princess Leia!"

"Well, your mug's so ugly you should be Chewbacca!" Hands thrown up in defeat. "Fine! Be Han. I'll be Vader then. He's got that awesome red lightsaber and gets to use the Force!"

A pause, then, "Nuh-uh. I wanna be Vader!"

"Jaysus Christ, Murph! Just pick a fuckin' costume already. We're gonna be late for work!" 

 

Good and Evil

First time they fucked, Murphy had an epiphany that not only were they meant to break the rules, they were destined to rewrite them. 

As children, everything was defined into two distinct categories: right and wrong, good and evil, black and white, sinners and saints, brothers and lovers. 

However, in this moment, buried so deeply within Connor he feels the edges of their flesh and souls blurring together as one, Murphy realizes that love's never clear cut and dry. One man's damnation is another man's redemption, and fuck all those who would dare to judge. To Murphy, Connor is salvation. 

 

One Night Stands

"I've never had a one night stand."

The brothers kept blue eyes fixed upon Rocco, purposefully not taking a drink, not moving an inch. 

"I don't fucking believe it! Neither of you? What the fuckin' fuck?" Rocco huffed and chugged his beer. "Seriously, you two could be pulling pussy every goddamn night! Or dick, if ya swing that way." 

"Not our style," Murphy clarified, subtly shifting closer to his twin.

"Aye," agreed Connor, slight smile saturated with secrets gracing his full lips. 

Their friend shook his head in disbelief. "You fuckin' Catholics and your fuckin' guilt."

If he only knew. 

 

We Have to Talk

The closing door reverberates through the room and I steel myself for what lies ahead. This wasn't going to be easy. "Murphy. We have to talk," I begin and he freezes upon hearing my tone. 

"I was afraid this was comin'."

"This has to stop." 

Shaking his head, he insists, "It's not harming anyone." Earnest, pleading eyes meet mine and I almost relent. 

"It's not right. You know it."

Murphy bites his lip enticingly. "Just once more? Please, Conn?" Christ, I can never refuse him. 

"Alright. But this is the last fuckin' time!" I dictate, pointing to the bottle of Rose wine clutched in his hands. 

 

I Like It Hard and Fast

The desolate wastelands of Nevada were like nothing they'd seen before--a scorching, extraterrestrial world with endlessly open highways. Connor fucking loved it. 

Effortlessly shifting into 5th gear, engine purring smoothly as the speedometer climbed past ninety, Connor's cock strained shamelessly against his fly. Usually they drove inconspicuous vehicles, but upon discovering the gleaming black and chrome 1970 454 Chevelle SS in the Vegas mob boss's garage, he just couldn't fucking resist. 

"Fuckin' Christ, Murph, stop it! I'm gonna come in my jeans if ya keep that up!" 

"Don't fret, leannán. Focus on your stick and I'll focus on mine." 

 

leannán = lover

 

Absolution 

I will have far too much to repent for upon my judgment day. I'll fall in supplication, begging forgiveness for all the shameful ways I've betrayed our Father's laws. 

Except for this.

I'm on my knees now, genuflecting before the immaculate godliness that is my brother. I adore his cock with my mouth, humming around him as he moves his graceful hips rhythmically. His tip touches the back of my throat and I swallow, striving to bestow as much bliss as I'm currently harboring in my heart, his guttural gasps and moans hymns to our devotion.

For loving Murphy, I will never seek absolution.

 

Forgetfulness 

Murphy's beyond nervous, twitching more than usual. He jiggles his knees, burning through cigarettes like he's about to be executed. Connor rages, "Knock it the fuck off already!" 

He's certain Connor's forgotten, Guinness tasting bitter like his disappointment. 

Connor makes them leave early, but Murphy's foul mood means he doesn't mind. Outside, firm hands push him suddenly against the brick of the alley and insistent, hungry, devastating lips steal his breath, his anger, his sanity. 

Moving his mouth to Murphy's ear, Connor murmurs, "To the minute."

"Thought you forgot." 

"How the fuck could I forget? Happy one year anniversary, Murph." 

 

Leather 

"Jaysus, Conn! Ya tryin' to kill me?"

"I've no fuckin' idea what you're on about," replied Connor innocently as he sauntered to the fridge to grab a beer. 

"You know damn well what! The fuck're you wearin'?" Murphy demanded. Leaning against the wall, Connor took a long drink and stared at him, devilish eyes dancing. 

"They're just trousers, Murph."

"They're fuckin' leather! Black leather!" Murphy was actually gaping at the sinfully snug fit. 

"Shut your gob and get dressed. We're goin' out."

"Where?"

"Does it fucking matter?"

And, with Connor looking like that, Murphy had to admit that no, it didn't.

 

Ice 

August in Boston's unbearable. The freezer's shit at making ice, so Connor carried a pack over his shoulder, condensation soaking cloth and skin. 

"'Bout fuckin' time!" Murphy complained when Connor stormed onto the roof into blinding sunlight. 

"Fuck off!" Connor peeled off his shirt, collapsing onto the frayed, rusting lounge chair. Murphy immediately poured the ice over the waiting bucket of beers. 

Groaning upon feeling tantalizingly familiar weight settle over his hips, Connor shuddered as a slippery cube trailed down his chest to his navel. "What'cha doin'?" 

A tongue lapped the pooling water. "Wanna make ya so hot you melt too." 

 

Demands 

"We want Il Duce. We have very old scores to settle," the ancient Italian mafioso demanded, pointing his gun at Murphy's head. "Deliver him or we'll kill your brother." 

Connor's fingers twitched on the Berettas' triggers, eyes radiating glacial fury, desperately calculating his next move. 

"Fág mé, mo chuisle. Shábháil tú féin!" Murphy insisted.

"Ná!" growled Connor. "Ní féidir liom maireachtáil gan tú." 

Gunshots exploded, bodies slumping to the ground like marionettes with cut strings. Ears ringing, Connor ran to Murphy, frantically checking for injuries. 

"Alright there, lads?"

"Aye, Da," breathed Murphy shakily, calling Noah that for the first time. 

 

Leave me, my pulse (of my heart). Save yourself!

Never! I can't live without you.

 

Pain 

Crunching cartilage under my clenched fist is beyond satisfying. An answering blow to my jaw has me shaking away the blooming pain as I barrel into him, knocking him to the ground. I'm on him in a flash, splitting lips while teeth split my knuckles. 

Strong hands wrench me away. "He's out, Murph!" I squirm in his grasp, limbs fighting. "Christ! Get ahold of yourself!" my brother hollers, dragging me to the bar, the locals dumping my opponent into the alleyway. 

Connor regards me carefully. "The fuck, Murphy?"

"Needed the pain," I rasp, downing my whiskey.

"Why?"

I don't answer, unable to meet his eyes. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Medication

Connor's loopy off his ass, talking gibberish as I deposit him on his mattress. 

"Christ, Murph, but you're beautiful. It weighs on me too much." He's grinning madly, flailing his limbs in emphasis, heedless of the fresh cast on his right forearm. Doc must've given him some real primo shit. 

"What? You've lost it, haven't you?" I scoff, struggling to remove his boots. 

He continues raving. "I lie awake at night, wonderin' what ya taste like." 

"That's the drugs talkin', Conn."

"You're my drug," he mumbles, drifting asleep. 

I scrutinize him carefully, wondering: _It is just the drugs, right?_

 

The Ocean

Connor's eyes are the color of tropical seas lapping at shores of beaches as golden as his skin. The seductive coves of blue absorb Murphy, make him feel serene, surrounded by simmering passion. 

Murphy's eyes are the color of Irish seas crashing against cliffs, creating spray as luminescent as his skin. The deep pools of blue devour Connor, make him feel cherished, overwhelmed by drowning devotion. 

Only when they carry out their ordination from God do their eyes match, becoming raging Arctic oceans of fearsome fury, merciless and deadly, icy blue-gray oftentimes the last color evil men behold before blackness. 

 

Suspicion 

He suspected. His twin started leaving the bar before him, not returning until dawn was breaking. He talked to him differently. He smiled at him differently. He touched him differently. He even smelled differently for fuck's sake.

Connor was devastated.

Surrounded by a perpetual cloud of smoke, he waited. Keys rattled in the door and Connor's eyes surged with angry accusation. 

"Don't look at me like that. You're the one who refused me." 

"To save your soul, Murphy! Not 'cause I don't love ya or want ya!" 

Murphy's voice was cold, emotionless. "Did you really expect me to wait forever?"

Connor's heart broke. 

 

Shopping 

Spending a Saturday at the mall was hell on earth, but it couldn't be helped. Their stained, ratty jeans were literally held together by threads. 

"Bring me one the next size down, will ya?" 

"You lose weight?" Murphy questioned, startling when an arm snaked out, yanking him into the dressing room. 

"No." Breathy chuckle, heated lips at his jaw. "Need ya, Murph." Hands reached down, one cupping him, other squeezing his ass. 

"Gonna get us kicked out," warned Murphy, his fingers carding through Connor's hair, tugging him closer. "What about the jeans?" 

Carnal growl in his ear, "Fuck the jeans."

 

Resolutions 

"What's your New Year's resolution gonna be, Conn?"

"Not making one. No use in settin' myself up for disappointment and failure," Connor sagely said. "You?"

"Haven't decided yet." 

At 11:59, everyone at McGinty's watched the ball descend, counting down at the top of their lungs. Mind resolute, Murphy swiftly manhandled his shocked twin into the empty gents, hand firmly wrapped around the nape of his neck. When the celebratory shouts rang out, he crushed his lips to Connor's, their tongues instinctively meeting, hearts melding. 

Breaking apart, chests heaving, Murphy beamed. "Didn't fail this year, Conn."

"Aye, certainly didn't disappoint either." 

 

Friday the 13th

Connor's brain has a troublesome time embracing religion. Religion is all about faith in the impossible and irrational, in what cannot be definitively proven. His dominant, logical side grapples with the stringent belief system Catholicism demands of him, all wrapped in miracles, virgin births, and resurrections. But believe he does, fervently. 

Acceptance of the implausible progressively begins to include superstitions. Today's Friday the 13th, and he's wary and on edge as soon as his feet touch the ground. 

However, it's the day Murphy finally kisses him breathless for the first time, instantly becoming the day he considers luckiest of all. 

 

Royalty 

"I swear to Christ, if one more girl asks me about Prince William I'm gonna puke! Don't Americans know we hate the fuckin' Brits?" Connor complained indignantly. 

"Maybe they think you're from the North?"

"Don't even speak of such sacrilege! Do I sound like I'm from the fucking North?" 

"Jealous, brother?" Murphy goaded, poking his twin.

"Piss off! Just don't give two shits about those royal assholes!"

"He is handsome, ya know." 

"Fuckin' shut it, Murph!"

"Don't worry, Conn. You'll always be a prince to me." 

If looks could kill, Murphy would've been a smoking pile of rubble. 

 

Company 

"C'mon guys! Open up!" A jarring banging followed, and Murphy paused mid-thrust, Connor whining in frustration.

"Maybe he'll leave," Murphy whispered, biting Connor's earlobe.

"Donna's gone fuckin' nuts! I need a place to crash!" yelled Rocco. 

"Fuck," hissed Connor, lifting his hips in encouragement, "keep going! So fuckin' close!" Murphy met his movements desperately until the doorknob rattled violently.

"I can fucking hear you!" 

Murphy swore, pulling out of Connor, who grumbled, "I'm gonna kill him." Opening the door minutes later, still flushed, Rocco eyed them skeptically.

"What're you guys doin'?"

"Just fuckin' around," Murphy answered, technically not lying. 

 

Late 

"I thought you just went to take a piss!" Connor hissed under his breath, not wanting to disturb the other movie patrons.

"I've a good reason so shut it!"

"If I had a dollar for every excuse you've given me for being late, I'd buy the fuckin' Sox!"

"Here, prick!" A rattling box landed in Connor's lap. Junior Mints--his favorite. "I went out 'cause there weren't any at the concessions."

"Murph," he began. His brother merely huffed, arms crossed.

An hour later, Connor grabbed Murphy's hand, kissed the palm, entwining their fingers. Murphy squeezed back, signaling all was forgiven. 

 

First Time

The first time he kissed a girl, he'd been beyond disappointed. Michaela was even gracious enough to let him under her shirt, but her soft, feminine curves felt all wrong. He didn't even get hard.

The first time he kissed a boy, he'd felt like it was a small step in the right direction. Daniel pressed the hard planes of his body against him in a way that felt more natural than any girl before. But, still, something was off.

The first time he kissed Connor, Murphy realized he'd finally found his perfect forever, standing by his side this entire time. 

 

Water 

The drops of water his fingertips press against his forehead when crossing himself are cool but empty. They're unlike the splatters of hot, weighted blood that decorate his face too goddamn often these days. 

Another city, another cathedral, another river of souls delivered. After the years of killing, he doesn't think that all the holy water in the Vatican itself would be enough to cleanse his soul or conscience. What separates them from the evil men they hunt?

But, during the forgiving nights, bathed in drops of Connor's saliva, sweat and come, that is the only baptism Murphy truly needs. 

 

Autumn 

Autumn in Boston is stunning and nothing like they've witnessed before--Ireland is made for springtime. 

This first fall in this new city in this foreign country is wondrous. Vibrant leaves drift down lazily to coat grass and concrete alike. A unique scent colors the brisk wind, making one want to deeply inhale the sweet decay. Everything sounds crisper, colder, purer. 

They purchase a matching set of pea coats to protect themselves from the steadily intensifying chilly days. But they buy only one thick blanket, more than happy to share, spending their nights embracing tightly under a swollen harvest moon. 

 

CPL 

"Fuck!" The desperate rummaging in the cupboards echoed loudly. "Guess that'll have to do!" 

Murphy eyed the bottle dubiously, bent over the cluttered table. "I dunno." 

"Well, spit wasn't enough and we don't have anything else! I didn't exactly wake up thinking I was gonna be fuckin' ya up the ass!" Connor spread some olive oil on two fingers, which he gently eased into Murphy, causing him to buck into the intrusion. "Don't wanna hurt you." 

Murphy moaned, writhing with want, "Fine! Just do it, Conn!"

"Hold on! Gotta baste my cock first."

"Fucker. We're never using that to cook again!"

 

Package 

"Have ya lost your fuckin' mind, Conn? What the fuck?"

"Just some underwear I picked up for you." 

"These aren't underwear! These are pornographic!"

"Don't be so fucking dramatic. They're quite the rage in Europe." 

"Do I look like some French frog? I'm not wearing 'em!"

"At least try 'em on, ya fuckin' pussy!" 

"Christ, the things I do for you! Shit, these're snug! And tiny...huh...um..."

"I knew they'd emphasize your best feature, Murph." 

"Aye, well, maybe...but doesn't mean they're comfortable."

"Good thing I've no intention of you keeping them on for very long, my dear brother." 

 

Candles 

Cardinal O'Malley walked towards the glowing south transept of Holy Cross Cathedral. Hundreds of flickering candles illuminated the rows of benches under the three stained glass windows of Saints Patrick, Brigid and Thomas. He gently retrieved the paper set amidst the flames, reading the same words left here, on this exact night, for the last ten years. 

 _I may doubt God at times, but I never doubted you--my Thom, my love, my everything. I miss you, deartháir._  

A solitary, dark-haired figure watched the Capuchin monk, whispered, "Happy birthday, Conn," before disappearing out the doors into the lonely Boston night.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Tension

It'd been building for 36 hours. Murphy almost dying. Connor saving him. Killing the Russians. Simultaneously experiencing the divine calling. Choosing the tools for their new trade. Tussling in the ducts. Executing more Russian scum. 

They left Rocco, promising to meet him later. Adrenaline pumping, hearts surging with blood-lust, souls merging with purpose. The ajar door to the pristine, empty hotel room was a sign if they ever saw one. Connor's hands ripped Murphy's jeans open, touching him like never before. Murphy's tongue lapped Connor's lips, pulling him to the bed. 

After, they realized it'd been building for 27 years. 

 

Saints 

The day of their confirmation, Connor and Murphy surprised everyone. While many of their fellow adolescents adopted the more traditional Irish choices of Patrick, Brigid or Columba for their patron saints, their bishop raised his eyebrows upon reading the more unusual names the two had chosen. 

Cosmas for Connor. Damian for Murphy. 

Family and friends speculated and questioned them endlessly. "Is it because they were miraculous healers?" "Is it because they defied death?" 

The boys merely shook their heads, keeping the significance solely to themselves. They never told a soul the most important reason: Cosmas and Damian had been twins. 

 

Suit and Tie

"Dunno why we gotta wear these monkey suits," grumbled Murphy from behind the bathroom door. 

"Aye, but ya know Ma. No use arguing," answered Connor, smoothing the sleeves of his navy jacket. The door opened and an irritated Murphy stormed out. Fuck, but did that black suit fit him to perfection, emphasizing strapping shoulders, athletic arms, limber legs. Typical Murph, though, with unbuttoned collar, loosened tie askew. Connor subtly adjusted his rapidly filling cock before adjusting his brother's tie. 

"Fuckin' Christ, Conn. You're chokin' me!"

"Just wait 'til you're choking on my cock later."

Murphy squirmed throughout the entire wedding. 

 

Wine 

"Fuck, your hair smells like wine, Murph!"

"Fine, I'll go shower then." 

"Don't you dare fuckin' stop!" groaned Connor, stretching to lick a stripe from the sweaty hollow of his brother's throat up his Adam's apple to his scruffy chin. "The way you bashed that guy's head in, Christ!" 

Murphy moaned, thrusting faster, shifting slightly to repeatedly hit that fucking spot inside Connor. "How you lit that fat fuck's ass on fire! Bleedin' deadly!" Murphy growled into his ear. 

"Harder, Murph!" begged Connor shamelessly. "Yes! Fuck!" 

They fucked like it was their last time, oblivious that it almost was. 

 

Reflection 

He caresses the cool, silver surface with bloody fingertips, purposefully smearing streaks that obscure his face. His is not the face he yearns to see. There's no mole. The smile, if he could manage it, pathetic in comparison. 

However, the cross in the mirror's on the right side, Latin on the craved index finger, although the word's all wrong. 

A hollow reflection of the man he cherished above everything, currently decaying in unmarked earth, Connor grows increasingly reckless. He keeps his promise to Murphy and doesn't take his own life, but an evil man's bullet will do the trick nicely. 

 

Fight 

They always fought their battles together, two bodies moving as one in synchronicity, guaranteeing victory. 

Until the instance Connor wasn't in time to help Murphy take on three older boys. About to step in, he stopped, proudly assessing that he wasn't needed. 

It took Connor's breath away to behold, despite the blood smeared under his nose, purple bruise already blooming around one eye, the brutal accuracy in which Murphy doled out endless punches while gracefully avoiding six fists. It was like a fucking dance. 

From that moment on, Connor had absolutely no doubt that Murphy could take care of himself. 

 

Cacophony 

A cacophony of empty beer cans echoes as Murphy's back is slammed flat onto the tabletop. Connor fucking crawls over him, straddles his hips. 

"The fuck, Connor?" Murphy stammers, peering up into gleaming eyes. 

"Tired of waitin', Murph." Predatory grin makes Murphy shiver. "Tired of you fuckin' teasing me." 

"I'm not," he protests weakly but the feral snarl silences him. 

"You know exactly what the fuck you've been doing." Carnivorous teeth bite his bottom lip not-so-gently. Murphy yelps, then that tongue he fantasizes about ravages his mouth viciously. 

Thank Christ Connor's got the balls to finally do what he couldn't. 

 

Boulevardier 

The first thing they do in any unfamiliar city is explore. They pound the pavement, discovering twisting nooks and crannies, uncovering dead-end alleyways, memorizing avenues of escape. When one wrong turn could spell arrest or death, it's a necessity rather than simple curiosity. 

This knowledge has saved their asses countless times. The men they hunt and the police alike think they simply have luck or God on their side. They're comfortable with these assumptions, as they'd rather be underestimated. Only three BPD detectives, Smecker and they themselves know it's because the MacManus brothers are fuckin' smart. 

 

Forcible 

They're definitely not what one would call stealthy or covert, even when Connor gets some hare-brained scheme in his head that fails more often than not. 

Doors kicked in, windows shattering, wood and glass and bullets and blood flying, reliant upon surprise and panic to expeditiously exterminate their prey. That is their modus operandi. It may not be graceful or refined or flawlessly scripted, but it fucking works. Evil men, dead men. 

They're just as forcible and inelegant when they fuck. Pounding walls, upending furniture, cursing up a storm, desperately marking each other in ways so imperfectly and perfectly them. 

 

Deleted Scenes

"What the fuck? For a true story, they left out the most important part!" 

"What's that?"

"US, Connor!"

"Don't think the public's ready for our particular type of love." 

"Fuckin' prudes! I'm not ashamed of us!"

"Me neither, deartháir."

"It better be in the deleted scenes then!" 

"I checked, Murph. It's not."

"Fuck! I should call that prick Duffy and really give him a piece of my mind!" 

"He did kinda hint at it if you look real close." 

"He's too much of a pussy to tell the truth!"

"Aye, maybe so. But, I kinda like that no one else knows." 

 

Learning 

The twins excelled at languages, even surpassing the Sisters' knowledge, except for Sister Cecilia, who actually grew up in Italy. 

Murphy dreamed of past lives together and believed that's why they were so effortlessly fluent. Russian soldiers fighting in World War I. Spanish pirates plundering the Caribbean. French explorers trapping furs in the Canadian wilderness. German spies defecting to aid the Allies. Italian vintners living on their multi-generational Tuscan estate. 

They also communicated in their own unique language, a dialect only the two of them would understand, adding new verbs, nouns, adverbs, adjectives and exclamations to their repertoire each blissful night. 

 

Sleep 

Sleep had always been an elusive motherfucker for Connor. He couldn't stop worrying about what had gone wrong in the past, what could go wrong in the future. 

Much like he did most things, Murphy slept hard and fast. Usually his slight snores and heavy breaths comforted Connor, but tonight's patience hit its limit and a sharp elbow startled Murphy awake. He merely stretched lazily, inquiring knowingly, "Can't sleep, Conn?" 

"Fuckin' right genius, you are!"

"There's four hours 'til sunrise. How should we pass the time?" Murphy made sure to wear Connor out so he finally slept at last. 

 

Biography 

"Think they'll write a book 'bout us someday, Conn?"

Connor threw on his sunglasses as they stepped out of the desolate church, squinting into the blinding sunlight of the even more desolate Texan desert. "Maybe," he grunted. 

"It'd be crazy to see our biography in bookstores. But, they'd probably put it with the serial killers. We'd be sitting on a shelf next to Charles Manson." Murphy paused, sadness flitting across his features at the thought. "At least we know the truth. What we're doing and why," he murmured. 

Connor absently stroked the inked letters on his finger. "Aye. We do." 

 

Trinity 

_Father_

The mismatching circumferences of lit smokes flaring was the only communication between them. He hated how the pungent fog of Noah's cigar clung to him like death. 

_Son_

He hadn't eaten in days, preferring to drink his calories. Didn't matter what, merely that it blurred his shredded edges. Except Guinness. That now tasted like blood. 

_Holy Ghost_

He wondered how long one can survive on memories alone. He hasn't been outside in months, not wanting to witness blue in the sky, feel caresses in the wind, hear "Murph" in the trees. He's not ready to confront his holy ghost. 

 

Rainbow 

The tropical storm had been a doozy, yet another reason not to carry out God's command in Florida during hurricane season. Don't get them started on the fuckin' humidity. 

Emerging from their seedy hotel room, Murphy surveyed the debris scattered around them, then pointed to the horizon. "Just that something so beautiful can come out of something so dark and destructive proves God exists." 

Connor outwardly scoffed at his twin's cheery optimism, but studied the supposed sign in the sky thoughtfully. He decided that amidst all the darkness and destruction surrounding them these days, Murphy was, indeed, his motherfuckin' rainbow. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most heartfelt thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Ritual

I've never been one for rituals. I consider myself a more fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda guy. Connor, he's the methodical one. The planner. 

The only rite I used to accept was Mass. Predictable. Traditional. Comforting. Now I've embraced others. The prayer recited in unison with my twin. The placing of copper over lifeless eyes. The cleaning of weapons that deliver God's justice. 

But, no matter how many times Connor and I act on our love, it will never become a mindless routine of repetition or solely going through the motions. It's always as fresh, as thrilling, as un-fucking-believable as the very first time. 

 

Cruel 

While neither of them exactly fight fair, Murphy can be especially cruel. A few decidedly sharp words can cut to the quick, efficient and precise. 

Those alluring lips twisting up in a devilish smirk, hovering inches above Connor's own gasping mouth, cause Connor to shiver in trepidation and anticipation. Murphy's even more dangerous when he's silent than when he speaks, especially when he's got that fucking sadistic spark in his glittering eyes. Connor pulls helplessly against the ropes restraining him, bucking his hips off the bed, simultaneously praying for escape while begging for his brother to never fucking let him go. 

 

Gorgeous 

"Your brother's so gorgeous!" Her inane giggling's giving me a headache. Like I don't know Connor's a fuckin' Adonis. I glance over where this ditz's friend chats him up. I need to shut this shit down, fast. 

"You think his face is gorgeous, you should see his cock," I reveal calmly, relishing her shocked expression. 

Connor's back at the bar, waiting for me. "Think they were tag-teaming us there, Murph," he comments dryly, lighting us both a fresh cigarette. 

"How'd ya get her to shut up?"

"Talked about your cock." He quirks an eyebrow. "You?" 

"Great minds, brother. Great minds." 

 

Fortress

Murphy's a chatterbox when he drinks. Sober, he's pretty quiet, so all the thoughts milling about in his noggin come spilling out once the alcohol loosens his tongue. 

Lately, he's been locked up tighter than fuckin' Fort Knox, fake smiles and laughs thrown my way when he's not brooding over his stout. Fucker must be mental if he thinks I haven't noticed. I hound him about what's wrong, but he stubbornly guards his secrets behind that impenetrable fortress. 

I ponder what he's hiding, daring to hope it just might be the exact thing I've kept under lock and key myself. 

 

Cotton 

Cotton fibers are still stuck between my teeth, refusing to be dislodged by copious amounts of whiskey and beer. 

The weight of my brother collapsed against me is a fraction of the weight settling into my heart. He's sleeping, fitfully, body jerking in response to merciless nightmares. 

There's a reason I haven't closed my eyes yet. 

Blood spraying from Murphy's arm, his furious screams of "Motherfucker!", searing odor of his sizzling flesh haunt me. I forced myself to burn him, not trusting Roc with that. Not with my Murph. 

I chain-smoke in silence, wondering what the fuck we do now. 

 

Addition 

Murphy was right-brained, artistic and creative, feeling deep and daydreaming even deeper. He was all about visualizing the big picture. Connor was left-brained, verbal and analytical, thinking deep and reasoning even deeper. He was all about logical, linear steps. 

Together, Connor knew they were irrational numbers. Additions that violated the laws of mathematics, but proof absolute of their elegant theorem. 

Four arms equal one embrace. Four legs equal one step. Two bodies equal one heart. Two heads equal one mind. One Connor plus one Murphy equals one soul, one love, one life together. Always. 

 

Undressing Me with Your Eyes

"You're doing it again." Connor's voice drifts from the table where he's reading. His eyes don't leave the page, but he feels my hungry gaze. 

"Doin' what?" I play innocent, thumbnail finding its way between my teeth. 

"Undressing me with your eyes, ya dirty old man," he replies evenly, not moving an inch. He must sense my smirk because he throws down the magazine to glare at me. "For fuck's sake, Murph! We just fucked twenty minutes ago!" 

"I may be dirty," I purr, stalking purposefully to him and placing his hand over my erection, "but I'm definitely not old." 

 

Manifest Destiny

Murphy's always been obsessed with America, devouring volumes of its history as a teenager. He'd called it preparing for when they eventually moved there. Connor'd called him fuckin' barmy. 

As their rusted sedan crossed the dusty, monotonous fields of Nebraska, Murphy suddenly recalled a certain phrase. "Hey, Conn? Know how the Americans settled the west? Pioneers and shit?" 

"Yeah?"

"They believed it was God's will to do that. Called it Manifest Destiny."

"And?" 

Murphy stared at the setting sun directly ahead of them. "God wants us to bring his truth and justice out here. This...this is our Manifest Destiny." 

 

Sports 

Growing up in Ireland, loving footie's an unwritten rule. And they still do. They just never expected to also fall in love with American sports so much, rooting enthusiastically for the Patriots, Celtics, Bruins. 

Their absolute favorite's the Sox, and going to Fenway's the ideal way to spend a Boston summer day. The brothers can only afford the cheap seats, but that's where they can smoke, drink their smuggled booze and heckle until their hearts content. They're surrounded by blue-collar workers like themselves, hearing more than a few Irish accents among the rowdy fans. Surprisingly, it almost feels like home. 

 

Buttons 

"Fuckin' Christ!" Connor's aggravated voice cut through panting gasps and Murphy chuckled as helpless fingers fumbled at the button fly of his jeans. "Damnit, Murph! You're never buying us jeans again!" 

"Hmmm, I dunno," Murphy rumbled, as he made swift work of Connor's zippered fly. "I certainly like the pair I got you." Talented digits crept down inside the band and teasingly grasped the silken hardness below. 

"Explain to me how this is fair," Connor groaned, unable to stop his hips from thrusting into his twin's warm, welcoming fist. 

"It's not." Sometimes, Murphy really relished pushing his brother's buttons. 

 

Chase

The epitome of his forbidden yet coveted downfall sprawls casually on the metal fire escape. Alluring skin appearing more bronze against the illumination of the glowing cherry. Spiky hair shimmering blonder in the devilish moonlight. Tantalizing throat exposed, muscles moving seductively as the beer's swallowed down. Bead of liquid clinging to enticingly full lips, swept away by a graceful thumb that's sucked into wet heat. Incandescent eyes meet his. 

 _Christ_.

His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate, every sense heightened while in the presence of his unwitting prey. He bides his time, knowing he will never give up the chase. 

 

Seduction 

The culmination of his unthinkable yet craved ruination tensely sits in the opposite corner. Defined muscles shifting captivatingly under skin so pale as to be translucent. Smooth, dark hair dripping down his head like reflective ink. Tormenting fingertips rubbing at lips constantly being worried red by greedy teeth. Eyes, flashing like quicksilver, track each movement, rove over every inch of his body while dilating so much as to appear black. Primal. Ravenous. 

 _Christ_.

His every motion is deliberate and precise while in the presence of his unwitting predator. He bides his time, willing to be caught, waiting for the inevitable. 

 

Sober 

I unwillingly wrench my lips from your questing ones. Bemoaning disapproval, confused sky eyes meet mine. I will myself to be resolute, despite that entrancing gaze that unfailingly renders me your slave. 

"You never kiss me when you're sober." I want this to be more than wordlessly dismissed, drunken mistakes. This is everything to me, as I pray it is for you. 

You study me in an incomprehensible manner before turning away, leaving me to wallow in disappointment. 

The next morning, I awake to lips on mine as you proceed to kiss me tenderly, whispering, "I'm sober now, Murph." 

 

Trees 

It wasn't their only special place, but they'd had it the longest. From hide-and-go-seek, to learning to climb, to experimentally smoking first cigarettes, the massive oak tree witnessed everything. 

Connor, all agile limbs and lithe grace, was the better climber, reaching lofty heights in twisting branches where Murphy couldn't follow. Until one afternoon, while his twin practiced footie, he clambered unsteadily onto Connor's favorite branch, shocked by what he discovered engraved there.

C+M. 

Heart thundering, he waited anxiously. Slamming Connor against the door when he entered, Murphy kissed him fiercely, possessively. Connor smirked knowingly, "Finally climbed high enough, eh Murph?" 

 

Weakness

Most days, Murphy reluctantly agreed with Connor's assertion of being the eldest. Not that he would admit it aloud, so kindly fuck off. 

Pinned down, outnumbered and running out of ammo, Murphy watched in reverence as Connor strode through the hail of whizzing bullets, steady hands methodically eliminating the fuckers one-by-one, until he reached his brother's side. 

"Fuck, Conn! Don't you have a weakness?" Murphy snapped, checking him frantically for injuries. 

"It's obvious, isn't it?" he growled, desperately grasping the lapels of Murphy's coat, hauling him in close until Connor crashed their mouths together. "You!" 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Possession 

Periodically, Connor required this outlet that drove Murphy crazy. Which explained why he sat sipping over-priced, watered-down beer, watching his twin writhe on the crowded dance floor. 

Murphy couldn't tear his eyes off Connor, much like countless other pairs belonging to both sexes. He didn't blame them, so long as they kept their fucking hands off. The brawny boy currently pawing all over Connor clearly hadn't received that message. 

Knocking the asshole out with one punch, possessive fury seethed in Murphy's eyes. "No one ever touches you but me!" Connor took it as the sign he'd long been praying for. 

 

Salt 

They'd discussed it when it became too looming, too impossible to ignore, agreeing they loved one another too much to ever act upon it, to eternally damn their soulmate. 

Finding alternative companions, they strove to distract themselves from the other's allure. The liaisons never lasted, disappearing like the floating smoke and flowing whiskey also used as paltry substitutes. 

This latest one was different and had Murphy swallowing tears of agony in the shower where Connor couldn't hear. His twin replacing him was heart-wrenching, but the fact that Connor's lover looked so similar to himself just rubbed salt into the wound. 

 

Thighs 

Connor's legs infatuated Murphy. Tongue laving, teeth scraping, lips bruising over, under, around the thick, rough material of the holsters strapped around naked, shaking thighs. 

When he'd first witnessed those straps wrapped snugly around faded denim, he'd nearly had a brain aneurysm. Connor, completely unaware, lovingly fondled his new Desert Eagles and it took all of Murphy's restraint not to bend him over that table and fuck his brains out, Romeo and Liam be damned. 

Using those holsters as handles, Murphy flipped Connor over, thrusting into him so deeply that Connor actually keened, thankful such restraint wasn't necessary or desired. 

 

Tent 

"Fuck! Why do they make these so hard to put up?" 

"Did ya at least try to follow the instructions there, Murph?" 

"What the fuck for? It's pretty self-explanatory."

"Obviously. Which explains your amazing amount of progress." 

"Jaysus, Conn! Just get your ass over here and help me pitch the tent!" 

"Oh, I'll help you pitch a tent alright."

"Get your mind outta the gutter, ya worthless knob!" 

"My mind's not in the gutter. It's on the tent...in your jeans."

"I don't-" 

"Please, I can see it from here. That tent isn't the only one being erected."

"Christ, Connor!" 

 

Boondoggle 

"You and your fuckin' plans! Well, Mr. That's-How-They-Do-It-in-the-Movies? What the fuck do we do now?" 

"Fuckin' shut it! I'm figurin' shit out!" 

"This isn't like the vents, Conn! WE. ARE. STUCK. In a goddamn dumbwaiter!" 

"The idea was genius! Better than yours, Mr. Go-in-Blind-Guns-Ablazin'!" 

"We'd be done by now doin' things my way. Not sweatin' our asses off in a metal coffin!" 

"We'd be dead by now doin' things your way!"

"..."

"Fuck, Murph. Sorry." 

"Fine. Just use that gorgeous brain of yours and get us outta here." 

"Fine. After you use that gorgeous mouth of yours and kiss me." 

 

Bag of Bricks

"So...now you know." A huge weight had been lifted, still prepared for the inevitable fallout but no longer carrying around this goddamn bag of bricks anymore. Easy breath for the first time in months. 

The only remaining concern was how exactly Murphy processed this bomb of truth. Not well, given the incredulous expression upon his face. 

"How long you've felt this way?"

"Longer than I care to admit." 

"Fuck, Conn! What'll the other lads at school say?"

"Don't right give a shit!" 

"Jaysus. I love you, no matter what, ya know that, right? But a fuckin' Manchester fan? Christ!" 

 

It's Time

Exhausted. Surrounded.

So pale. So still. Standing there watching me with eyes so intense that if it wasn't for them and the rivers of blood flowing, I'd swear you were some macabre statue from my nightmares. 

But this isn't a nightmare. It's real and fucking happening and we have mere moments to decide. 

I know your choice before I know mine, just as you knew mine before your own. Together. As always. 

I'll do you. You'll do me. So many mortal sins already committed, why not add another to the ledger? 

It's time, brother, it's time to say our last goodbye. 

 

Topography 

Every curve, every hollow, every jut, every slope meticulously memorized with ravenous eyes, possessive mouth, covetous hands. The rippling hills and valleys of abdominal muscles, carved mountains of biceps, straight canyon of spine amidst shifting plains of tawny skin, shallow dip between sharp peaks of hip bones, tempting caverns above collarbones and at the base of throat, glorious swell of buttocks, contoured columns of thighs and calves. 

Fuck.

Murphy's avarice for the displayed landscape of his brother's body never ceases to astonish him and he will never tire of the privilege of traversing that tantalizing terrain time and time again. 

 

Gumption 

"You're a fuckin' coward!" The retreating back visibly flinched, steps faltering, waiting for the further insults he knew were going to be hurled his way. "You always were, Murph. Always runnin', leaving me behind to deal with the mess." 

He whirled around, powerful body tensing as he invaded Connor's space, noses inches apart. "Don't you understand? Once I...this...starts, I won't be able to stop!" 

"Who said anything about stopping?" Connor challenged, unblinking eyes simultaneously offering damnation and liberation. 

"I'm fucking serious, Conn. You'll be mine. Only mine. Forever."

"Always have been, deartháir."

Murphy kissed Connor and never stopped. 

 

Darkness 

Connor thought the lush green, soft rains, calming quiet of their homeland would bring the Murphy he fell in love with back. 

Murphy felt too fucking much, shutting off his emotions being the only way to cope. Long gone were the tender touches. Now brutal bruises instead. Loving looks now steely stares. Comforting caresses now demanding dominance. Selfishly taking while Connor gave and gave and gave. 

Stiff and sore, he clung to Murphy as his twin allowed a rare embrace post-fucking, lips brushing mussed hair. "Come back to me, Murph. Please." Met with stony silence, Connor shed a lonely tear. 

 

Friendship 

First time he met Rocco, Connor hadn't liked him. He touched Murphy too much, easy familiarity between them happening too fast. Connor watched with envious intensity over the rim of his pint, forced smile tight as someone other than himself caused Murphy to laugh with his whole body. 

Murphy knew exactly what was bothering his twin, spending hours proving to Connor how much he would always be his and his alone. 

Connor grew to love the scruffy Italian, perhaps even more than Murphy. They shared themselves in Rocco's presence, recognizing their capacity to love another would never diminish the singular devotion felt for each other. 

 

Bones 

I bleed for him, break bones for him, sweat for him. I come for him, on him, in him. I know how he works, and I'll beg each and every night to wear him out. 

I'm a fucking right-hand slugger if anyone touches my lover. I need this, and it's enough to drive me mad. I don't think my twin understands just how much I want him, break down because of him. 

There's not a bone in my body that's not weak for Connor, collapsing underneath his perfect, suffering inside his magic, drowning in his wonderful, loving him something terrible. 

 

Heaven 

Christ. I groan helplessly as his heat surrounds me, tightness enveloping me, his sublimity ruining me. I'm already addicted to this, to him, and I haven't even thrust my hips yet. The urge to come is so acute it steals my breath away. 

But it's our first time, and I have to make it perfect for Murphy because it's everything we've been wanting for so goddamn long. 

He moves his body upward, signaling he's ready, and I begin that ancient rhythm, exquisite friction soon destroying any lingering doubt. Who knew I'd be so lucky as to discover heaven existed on earth? 

 

Monster 

It's horrible, unthinkable, and it makes him feel like a fucking monster, but he can't help the same mantra that repeats itself on an endless loop in his brain. 

_Thank merciful Christ, it hadn't been Murphy.  
_

They plan, biding their time for the ideal moment, Murphy's eyes storming with righteous rage and Connor knows his reflect the same, neither's thirst for vengeance fading. If anything, it burns more vehemently. 

Rocco will have his revenge, the world will know and fear them, and there will be another monster off the streets. 

 

Awaken 

I don't exactly consider myself a morning person. We're night owls, usually closing down the pub, both in no hurry to greet the upcoming daylight. But the sun's already on it's way back down, and there you remain--sprawled, unmoving, in twisted sheets. 

Fuckin' ridiculous, Murph. 

I'm bored, restless, missing you. For once, it's me who can't sit fucking still. 

I'm extra loud while making food. TV volume too high. Clattering cans, rattling dishes while cleaning up. 

Nothing.

Sleepy blue eyes blearily blink open to greet mine. My mouth on your cock finally gets you up, in more ways than one. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks so much for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

Adoration 

Murphy's wickedly talented tongue was crafted to speak French. 

As a child, he used it to tease Connor mercilessly. "J'adore Conn- _or_ ," he'd tauntingly rhyme constantly, relishing his twin's reaction of rolled eyes and hurled objects. 

As an adult, he used it to express a terrifying depth of feelings to Connor, to cross that line neither had the courage to obliterate before. "Je vous adore, Connor," he earnestly murmured, relishing his twin's reaction of slight shiver and hitched breath. 

Murphy's wickedly talented tongue was also crafted to adore Connor, excelling in a way that would put any French tongue to shame. 

 

Scars

Every new scar etched upon the milky canvas of Murphy's skin etched a scar on Connor's heart. Connor's reminders were white, Murphy's pink, the colors stark against the contrast of bronzed and unbronzed flesh.

But each one also made Murphy more flawlessly beautiful in Connor's eyes, proof definite that they had survived another close call, that Murphy would do anything to protect his twin from harm.

Just as each new one on Connor's body told Murphy the same.

 

Blasphemy 

Whenever Murphy tops, Connor makes him remove his rosary. The eldest insists he can feel the blasphemy branded into his skin through wooden beads sinfully sliding between Murphy's chest and his back, cross dangling mockingly against Connor's face, neck, chest. 

Whenever Connor tops, Murphy makes him wear his rosary. The youngest insists he can feel the sanctification soothed into his skin, Connor's beads and cross a message of God's acceptance massaged into quivering, sweaty flesh. 

Eventually, Connor accepts Murphy's conviction and allows both to be worn, crosses clacking, beads entwining and tangling until they're knotted as one.

Much like themselves. 

 

Subway 

"Have I mentioned how much I hate the fuckin' T?" 

"Every single time we take it, Murphy."

"Why do we put up with this shite?" 

"Too far to walk, too expensive for a cab."

"Everyone's fucking starin'." 

"Two guys in matching clothes carrying big black bags? Even I'd keep a close eye on us." 

"Thought it's 'cause of how handsome ya are, Conn." 

"That'd be you, Murph."

"Fuckin' flatterer you are."

"Not flattery. Just the God's honest truth. Can't keep my eyes off ya." 

"Bring that silver tongue here so we can really give these fuckers something to gawk at." 

 

Dollar Bills

"Why do we put ourselves through that?" Connor grumbled, slamming the door. "Watching Rocco pay to have fake tits rubbed in his face isn't how I wanted to spend my fuckin' night!" 

"Necessary deception," Murphy smirked at his brother. "Upholding the image of being single, straight men desperate to ogle naked chicks." 

"Yeah, yeah." Scowling, Connor threw down a thick wad of singles before collapsing on the battered sofa. "What the fuck're we gonna do with all those?" 

Murphy crossed the room, peeling off his shirt before he straddled Connor's thighs, gyrating his hips rhythmically. "I've got a few ideas." 

 

Demons 

Initially, Connor felt betrayed when Murphy had gotten the tattoo, the first either had gotten independently from the other. 

Studying the images, dark ink staining the formally immaculate expanse of his brother's back, Connor couldn't determine if the demons were fighting to come closer together or separate further apart. Forever suspended in free-fall, black ominous wings almost angelic in their severity, so like Murphy himself. 

"Wanted my demons visible on the outside," he explained vaguely. 

Connor could understand. His own incessantly howled, raging for release whenever Murphy brushed innocently against him, those not-so-innocent eyes always burning with an impossibly loaded question. 

 

Reasons 

They could blame it on innumerable things: their ma being a drunk, their da leaving long before they could walk, rebelling against the rigidity of the religion they so fervently followed, codependency as children leading to stunted social development leading to misplaced intimacy as adults. 

They would be a psychoanalyst's goddamn wet dream. 

The reason a priest would give is cut and dry: Satan provided the ultimate temptation and they fell. 

Truth is, there's no desire to rationalize it. They accept their love for each other just as they accept the sky is blue.

It simply is. 

 

Circles 

"Think we should stop?" Connor's sated voice rumbles through his chest into mine. Still collapsed upon me as our breathing steadies, I absently draw circles over his sticky back. 

"I dunno," I reply honestly. "And go where? Do what?" My fingertips circle lower, skimming over those enticing dimples at the base of his spine. 

"Somewhere warm," Connor hums appreciatively, nipping my sweaty shoulder, then soothing it with kiss-swollen lips. I groan, cock springing to life again. Wicked smile as his angelic eyes meet mine, promising as he licks his way down, "I'm sure we'd find ways to occupy our time." 

 

Angel's Wings

"Fuckin' Christ!"

"Does it hurt, Conn?"

"Nah. Feels like goddamn angel's wings, ya daft prick! Shit!" 

"C'mon. Can't be that bad. Don't be a fuckin' pussy!" 

"Fine! We'll see how you feel when it's your turn in the chair, cocksucker!" 

"Jesus! Fuckin' fuck!"

"Oh, are those tears I see wellin' up in your eyes, Murph?" 

"Shut it!"

"No way. Man up, ya fuckin' pansyass!" 

"For the love of all that's holy, shut your motherfuckin' mouth for once in your life, Connor!" 

"You okay, Murphy?"

"Aye. Will be. Just do me a favor?" 

"Anything, deartháir."

"Hold my other hand, will ya?" 

 

Honor 

"Can't believe ya punched her in the fucking face!"

"Dirty bitch had it comin'! She fuckin' started it. I was merely protectin' your honor." 

"Oh, macho Murph. Always to my rescue!"

"Aye, you do make a fetching damsel in distress, Connor." 

"Damsel? No fuckin' damsel's ever taken a shot to the nuts like that. Jesus Christ, I think they disappeared up into my body!" 

"Well, maybe I'll just have to double check that for ya when we get home."

"That right, Murph?" 

"Aye. And when they stop hurtin', we'll make sure everything down there still works properly."

"My fucking hero." 

 

Jungle 

Fucking concrete jungle is right. Boston looks like a quaint, colonial village compared to the city that never sleeps, impossibly towering buildings casting the surrounding streets and alleyways into perpetual darkness. 

And, with the jungle comes predators taking advantage of the shadows to prey upon the weak. Mafia families vying for larger territories to pass onto the next generation. Prostitution rings and sex traffickers. Drug cartels and arms dealers. Serial rapists and child molesters. Murderers. Real serious shit. 

Prime hunting grounds for the Saints.

Little did those fuckers realize that they were no longer on top of the food chain. 

 

More than I Should

I watch you more than I should. You're my sun and I revolve around you, existing only because of your light. 

It's blatantly, painfully obvious. I can't help myself. I blame you. 

Why do you have to be so goddamn perfect?

Why do I have to be so goddamn weak?

Why do you have to be my goddamn brother? 

Your sweet weight settles over my hips, face hovering above mine, nervous in the moonlight. "Murph?" Slight lilt seeking permission, my hands in your hair bringing your lips closer is my assent. 

Why did you have to wait so goddamn long? 

 

Gold Star

"We're gold stars."

"What're ya on about, Murphy?"

"We've only had sex with men, so that makes us gold stars." 

"Technically, we've only had sex with each other."

"Still."

"Where's this comin' from?" 

"Thought we should know more about gay culture, 'cause, well..." 

"We're not gay, Murph. We're just into each other, is all." 

"Right, Conn. If I weren't around, try to tell me you'd be eatin' pussy and not sucking cock." 

"Fuckin' hell, ya may have a point there. Christ, does this mean I'm comin' out?" 

"Only to me and I think I already fuckin' knew that, don't you?" 

 

Fascinate 

"That twin thing you guys do. It's fascinating." 

Their cousin Johnny used to say something comparable, with weird and creepy peppered in rather than Smecker's choice of descriptor. They'd ignored Johnny, as had everyone else, since he was a massive twat. 

"Spend your whole life with someone, bound to become similar," Connor pointed out, synchronized movements of them extinguishing their smokes in the overflowing ashtray making Smecker chuckle and shake his head. 

"It's more than that. It's deeper." Smecker lit his own cigarette, sighing wistfully. "You're lucky." 

Murphy's electric blues met Connor's, the current between them palpable. "Aye. We are." 

 

Serenity 

Moments like this are beyond rare, so they sure as shit appreciate them when they do happen. 

Noah's out, meeting some shady contact to locate their next target. The Atlantic breeze caresses their balmy skin, chasing away the lingering scent of sex, swirling the matching plumes of smoke, but it's Connor's fingers ruffling Murphy's sweaty hair and not the wind through the open window. It's quiet, but not silent as the hypnotizing buzz of cicadas reaches their ears, the mating calls prophesying summer's impending end mixing with their own sated breaths. 

Tomorrow brings more death, but tonight's solely for them. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Transformation 

Truth is, they actually looked quite alike as children. 

Both had blonde hair, Murphy's almost shockingly so, until years changed it to the color of black coffee. Connor kept his golden locks, highlights drawn out by summer days, tempting streaks of sunshine begging to be touched. 

Both had pale skin that burned and peeled until their teens, when Connor's skin perpetually retained it's tawny glow while Murphy's remained freckled porcelain after the harsh red faded. 

Murphy sometimes wishes they still looked alike as men, but their dissimilarities mean he can kiss his twin in public whenever the urge strikes him. 

 

Covered 

"What the shit?" Annabelle yanked down the turtleneck's opening, exposing the damning bloom of red on Connor's throat. "Who did this?" 

Sharp eyes assessed him, daring him to lie. "Marie Greene," he grumbled, face reddening to match his bruise. 

"Stay away from those easy ones, Connor. They just wanna trap ya." She whirled out of the kitchen, leaving the boys to finish breakfast. 

Connor released an audibly relieved breath as Murphy grinned broadly, causing the blonde to kick him hard in the shin. "Fucker! I told ya she'd notice!" 

"Good thing she can't see where you marked me." 

 

It's All Relative

"The fuck're we even doin' here?" Swarms of squealing children ran around the yard, and Connor picked his way through them carefully as if avoiding landmines, which, honestly, was what he considered any child under the age of six. 

Murphy smirked at his discomfort, leading them to the table laden with alcohol, crowded by generations of rowdy relatives from Ma's side. "Think we really had a choice in the fuckin' matter?" 

"Can you believe we're related to these people? Almost makes me glad that we don't gotta deal with Da's family, too." 

"Aye. You're the only MacManus I'll ever need, Conn." 

 

Reunion 

"I don't trust him." Murphy's quiet voice is deadly as he wipes his and Rocco's blood from his face, steely eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "He tried to kill us." 

"That was before he knew who we were."

"He does it for money, not the Lord." 

"I know. But he's got contacts." I nuzzle into the nape of Murphy's neck, adoring the sensation of silken strands against my nose. "First time we get a bad feelin', we'll get the fuck out." 

"Alright." He leans back against my chest, sighing with exhaustion and grief. "But I'm not fuckin' callin' him Da." 

 

Control 

"Fuck! Murph, now!"

"Not yet, Conn."

"Motherfucker!" 

Connor's always in charge, always has the final say. Murphy's happy to follow, to let his brother take the lead. 

"No! Try to touch yourself again, I'll make you wait even longer, ya greedy bastard!" 

Except not here, not now. Murphy's in control and he makes damn fuckin' sure that Connor knows it, _feels_ it. 

"I can't wait...shit!"

"You can. You will." 

"Please, Murphy! Goddamn it! Please, alright?"

"Fuckin' hell, I love it when ya beg. Okay. Come for me, Connor! Come!" 

"Oh fuck! Jesus fuckin' Christ! Fuck, Murph!"

"Liberatin', isn't it?" 

 

Shell 

He'll be alright. I'm the one who always needed him more. I'm the one who fucking seduced him in the first place, relishing in the exquisite pleasure of tarnishing that gilded being. But, after I'm gone, he'll polish his blackened halo and find himself once more within God's good graces. 

Connor belongs there. I don't. 

He'll go on to laugh, to love again--man or woman, it doesn't fucking matter. 

And I'll go on, but a shell, leaving everything I ever was behind with him. 

I finger the spent bullet casing--his--in my pocket, refusing to glance back. 

 

Take Me to Church 

Smoky incense, tang of melting wax tickles his nose, doing nothing to cover the cloying scent of temptation kneeling to his right. 

Lips moving absently, his mind wanders, immediately conjuring images that should incinerate him to ashes within this holy place. 

Murphy's body, bare upon the Lord's table, becoming the altar he craves to kneel before. Murphy's head thrown back in ecstasy, sunshine through stained glass painting mosaics of vivid colors upon shifting canvas of flushed skin. 

It's too silent then, and Connor feels Murphy's stare upon his face, swears Murphy discerns that he's the only divinity Connor worships. 

 

Chain-smoking 

Doesn't bother with a lighter, monkey-fucking each clean tip to the glow approaching the filter, endless cycle never extinguished, his own personal Olympic torch. 

Gray haze mixing with gray light from a depressing gray dawn. Nothing glorious about this sunrise, save that it gradually reveals expanses of muscled torso as his Connor, shirtless, slumbers on unaware. 

Can't be good for him, Murphy comprehends, but better that his lungs burn than his sanity. 

There's a singular reason why a cigarette hangs perpetually out of his mouth these days. It's so that mouth doesn't find itself fastened--somehow, somewhere--upon forbidden flesh. 

 

Convenience 

"Hold up, Murph!" Connor's voice rang out over the wind whipping against his back. He turned to see his twin jerking his head at green and orange embellished doors. "Gotta craving." 

Rolling his eyes, he followed Connor into the glaring fluorescent lighting, knowing that he was heading directly for the pastry section. Murphy grabbed a sixer before requesting two packs of smokes from the bored cashier. Connor appeared by his side, donut already half-devoured, next wolfish bite igniting Murphy's blood. "And Astroglide," he directed the clerk, not taking eyes off Connor. 

Connor grinned, mouth full. "Thank Christ they're always open." 

 

Kneel 

The cold kiss of metal behind my ear makes me hiss as I register that somehow I've fucked up, and now my brain is about to decorate everything around me. 

"On your knees," the fucker demands, tongue thickly coated with the Motherland. I stand up even straighter. 

"Мой брат не опускается на колени для любого мужчины," merciless voice of justice before the explosion makes my ears ring, hot spray coating my neck and hair. "Except me," Murphy finishes, stony expression incongruous with eyes raging in panic. 

Later, I drop to my knees before Murphy, wordlessly thanking him with my mouth. 

 

*My brother does not kneel down for any man

 

Hush 

"C'mon. No one has to know."

"We'll know. And God'll know!" 

"They say you never forget your first time! Don't you want to share it with me, rather than with someone whose name you'll eventually forget?" 

"What if we get caught?"

"It's two in the mornin'! Who's gonna fuckin' see us?"

"Christ! You're a terrible influence, know that?" 

Moments later, two pale asses streaked headlong into the frigid lake, moonlight bouncing off the disturbed water the lone witness to the gasping yelps and splashing, naked and twisting bodies hidden beneath the rolling surface. 

It was one of many shared firsts. 

 

Ammunition 

"Janet Kelly!"

One drawback of being with the same person from the very moment of your birth is that they have plenty of ammunition to use against you. 

"Barely used tongue with her." Haughty look upon your face, about to go for the jugular. "'Sides, given our proclivities, chicks shouldn't count." 

"I swear to Christ, Connor, if you bring up Jeff McNeil, I'll brain ya!" 

"Shut your gob and I won't have to!" 

Deep down, you're just pissed that you've never kissed any other bloke and I have. Pause, then, "Shelley Nichols!" 

"Don't even start, fucker!"

Some things never change. 

 

Hell 

They're pretty goddamn positive that the portal to hell is the Times Square station in August. Stuffy, dank, moist air that makes one drip within minutes of entering. Throngs of confused tourists clog corridors, making navigating hurriedly around them almost impossible because the MacManus brothers sure as fuck know where they're going. 

Platforms overflowing with calloused New Yorkers who also loathe every moment they have to wait. Inside the car's no better--pressed together like cattle, smell of sweat and frustration overwhelming, air-con almost non-existent. 

Connor brushes his hand subtly against Murphy's, attempting to sooth frayed nerves. Like always, it works. 

 

Phone Call

"You sure about this?"

"You weren't there, Murph. I heard him. He knows what we're doin' and wants to help us." 

"He's a good man, aye, but it's his fuckin' job to catch us, 'member?" 

"Don't discount the 'divine intervention' he's received." 

Un-fucking-believable. "Shut your fuckin' mouth, Roc, or I'll make good on my promise, alright?" I'm still seething, insides quaking with fury. Threatening a goddamn priest! 

"It's your call, Conn." The trust in Murphy's eyes hits me like a punch to the gut. 

Jangle of coins, clack of buttons, trill of two rings, click of someone picking up.

"Smecker." 

 

Poker Face

Blank faces assess each other intensely, piled chips, loose change, wadded bills, cigarettes forgotten. I folded ages ago, piss-poor hand and heated brotherly competition to blame. 

"One." Murphy offers, not throwing anything into the pot.

"Two." Connor counters. 

They use their freaky twin connection to wordlessly agree on new stakes and, again, I'm left in the dark. Always the third wheel, but I don't mind. 

Connor calls Murphy's seven and winds up winning, yet Murphy seems anything but upset. 

"What'd ya bet?"

"Blowjobs."

Choking on my beer, spewing foam, I guffaw loudly. 

After, I realize that neither laughed at Murphy's joke. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you very much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

Illuminate

Connor loves living in Boston--crowds, noise, lights--but his favorite memory occurred last summer. Sweltering during a moonless August night, Connor seriously debated the merits of an icy shower when the city suddenly plunged into a darkness and stillness almost unnatural in the modern era of man. 

The first hour they simply watched the eerie, dead city from the fire escape, with the remainder of time spent wringing ragged moans from one another in as many ways possible. 

Connor loves blackouts now, too. 

Or, maybe he simply loves the way Murphy's luminescent skin's illuminated beneath him in flickering candlelight. 

 

Morning

It was like any other morning, but a first. They'd finally fucked. 

Already up, Murphy smoked intensely while fiddling in the kitchen, doing God knew what. He wasn't cleaning or cooking. That'd be a miracle. 

Connor rubbed his eyes, instinctively sought out Murphy, gaze as weighted as leaden muscles Connor never even knew existed, relishing in such sinful discomfort. 

Murphy sat, lighting another, squirming. Connor flinched, hoping it's his normal restlessness, not because he's sore. "Mass?" Not in Murphy's usual voice, darker, anxious like his midnight eyes. 

Connor's own raked over him hungrily. "Later. Let's really earn that confession." 

 

Law 

Growing up, the twins loved playing cowboys and Indians. Connor was always the moral sheriff, dutiful but dangerous. Wyatt Earp. Murphy was always the independent Native, wild and fierce. Crazy Horse. Neither and both won every time. 

Childish games shaped adult roles. Connor's logic and planning versus Murphy's action and impetuousness, which explained why--though they both wanted, needed it--Murphy was the one to take the plunge, starting it all and fuck the consequences: kissing, licking, touching, sucking, penetrating, fucking, coming. 

_Loving._

Connor loved Murphy too much to break the law. Murphy loved Connor too much to obey it. 

 

Itch 

A fight was imminent the moment that commie fuck insisted he made the offers. Just as well, as both itched for a proper brawl since that bitch kicked Connor's balls. Even though Murphy knocked her down with one punch, he'd held back. Cunt or not, she's still a woman. 

Murphy's eyes caught Connor's over the rim of the full shot-glass. The way his brother's cheeks hollowed sinfully as he sucked the whiskey down melted Murphy's brain with visions of Connor, on his knees, swallowing around Murphy's cock. 

After, Murphy promised himself. First things first. Time to punish some motherfuckin' Russians. 

 

Somebody Else

"It's me, Murph." Grin I once adored causes icy tendrils of apprehension. Doubt's a poison leeching through my veins, rotting the very core of me, of us. If I can't trust you, how the fuck do I survive? 

"Well, you look like yourself, but you're somebody else." Remorse used to peek through, a crack in your resolve hinting at the humanity within, the vulnerable part of you I loved most of all. 

Unlike this empty soldier I face, lines around your eyes no longer endearing, no longer from laughter. Etched there from cruelty instead. "I don't know you anymore, Connor." 

 

Scent 

"The smell of you is on me still, so tell me how I'm supposed to concentrate for the next eight hours?" 

"I know, Murph! Christ, I still taste ya! But I don't want you cutting off a fuckin' finger or some shite." 

"Fine, but stop lookin' at me like you've seen my cock up close and personal, Connor." 

"Then quit walkin' like you just had my cock up your ass." 

"Fuck, Conn! I'm half-hard as it is."

"Let's duck into this alley, smoke quick before our shift starts." 

"Fancy a quick snog instead?"

"Jaysus, Murphy. You're thick as shit sometimes." 

 

Truth 

"We'll be alright." Conviction I don't feel causes my voice to hollow, much like our veins and arteries as our life force drains away far too rapidly. 

You make a noise, somewhere lost between a sniffle and a snort. "I thought I told ya to tell me something true." 

"I'll never leave you, Murph. We're in this together, no matter what happens." Savage fielty weighs down every word. It's the sincerest thing I've ever said. 

"Aye. That's more fuckin' like it." Brutal kiss then, charged with adrenaline and fear. I savor it, regardless, unsure if it's to be our last. 

 

Flames 

She's waiting for Doc to fill her tray as the brunette one--Murphy she thinks--leans back against the bar, elbows resting behind him. Despite the rowdy pub around him, he stares fixedly at his brother, who's teaching pool to a pair of blondes. The ladies laugh as Connor's brilliant smile flashes. 

"Like moths to the flame, that one." Both of them are, but she's only feeling bold enough to comment on Connor, as he can't hear. Murphy glances over quickly, blue eyes sizzling with unnameable emotion, smirk appreciative at her observation. 

"Aye. But can you really fucking blame 'em?" 

 

Wolves 

You can't smile at me like that. I'm remaining tame by a thread, by a strand of your honeyed hair, by the thin, jagged scars that encircle your wrists, proof eternal that we belong to one another. 

Lone wolves? Never. Both the alpha. Our own pack--Il Duce's another species entirely. 

You can't look at me like that. Don't feed it. Don't you hear me howling outside your door? Scent of you in the air, blood and sweat and your fuckin' arousal. Or is it mine? Fuckin' Christ. The call of your wildness is getting so bloody hard to ignore. 

 

Faded 

Eyes washed out to the color of our frayed, faded denim. Internal fire extinguished, leaving smoke and ash behind, hazy, bitter, colorless. 

Smile brittle, cracked, forced like he's been sitting for a tintype photo for too fuckin' long, personality turning sepia before my very eyes. 

Grimaces, rather than sweet mischief, haunt his face, complexion sickly rather than luminous. Hair shaggy and stringy, shining and inviting no more. 

Murphy's soul is dying and it's taking the rest of him with it. I knew God demanded sacrifice for fulfilling his wishes, but I never thought we'd be paying such a dear price. 

 

Practice Makes Perfect 

"Fuckin' hell, Murph! Shit, I'm, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to...it's just, fuck...how did ya get so good at that?" 

"Practice makes perfect, brother mine."

"You've been out practicin' _that_?" 

"Well, not exactly the real thing. Suckers, ice lollies and the like." 

"Christ, you and your always putting somethin' in your goddamn mouth."

"Didn't hear you complaining just now." 

"Fuck. Not complainin' one bit. In fact, anytime you wanna practice, I'm available." 

"Mighty selfless of ya."

"Hey, what are big brothers for? Maybe, I'll even return the favor." 

"Oh, Conn, I've got the feelin' you're my new oral fixation." 

 

Depth of Faith

"Do you possess the depth of faith?" Noah had asked them, mere hours after delivering Yakavetta and revealing their presence to the world. The twins recognized the path as demanding, full of tribulations, not for the fainthearted. 

Connor felt the resolve slowly leeching out of him, his blackened wings becoming a shadowed burden. As the months and cities and souls flowed away, Connor's dedication drifted further, former righteous fury waning to weary resignation. 

He'd believed his faith in God was fathomless, but now all his faith was in Murphy. And that would keep him going until the bitter end. 

 

Sly 

Murphy thinks he's such a sneaky little shite. Touching my arm or thigh while regaling the locals with another anecdote. Brushing against my back on his way to the gents. 

He wants to see how much he can get away with, pushing my limits while around those who can't know our deepest secret. 

Hasn't he learned that I possess the patience of a saint when I want to? He's in for it when we get home. 

Leaning over my shoulder to order another round, hot breath, fingertips deliberate against my neck. 

Fuck, maybe this once, I'll have to admit defeat. 

 

Beach

LA was a cesspool, dazzling sunshine a golden veneer that concealed the filth within. 

Connor watched Murphy racing in and out of the water like an excited puppy, smile radiant and laughter resounding over the crashing waves. The layers of guilt and tension receded as he stripped down to his boxers, reveling in the sensation of sand between his toes. Cleansing breath, inhaling the sun's rays and salty breeze as a cure for their woes, then off at full-speed to tackle his beloved brother into the Pacific for the first time. 

Perhaps, there's something to the California lifestyle after all. 

 

Coffee 

They preferred their coffee like their whiskey, as they preferred most things: plain, strong, to the fuckin' point. 

Murphy couldn't hide his disgust as he watched Rocco dump another teaspoon of sugar into his coffee. "Want some coffee with your sugar there, Roc?" 

The Italian scowled. "Real original, Murphy."

"Doesn't make it less true," Connor pointed out. "I'm getting a fucking cavity just by watchin' ya." 

"So I gotta fuckin' sweet-tooth. I'm sure there's things you two put in your mouths ya know ya shouldn't." 

Connor choked on his coffee as Murphy dumped some onto his lap.

Rocco simply smiled. 

 

 


End file.
